


As It Was

by scribacchina



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of PTSD, Mute Credence Barebone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 12:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacchina/pseuds/scribacchina
Summary: Somewhere in the Alaskan mountains, Percival finds home, and sets to build a new life there.Credence has a reward on his head worth thousands of galleons, a pet chicken, and no voice to scream with. And Percival.It works, until it doesn’t.
Relationships: Credence Barebone & Original Percival Graves, Credence Barebone/Original Percival Graves
Kudos: 4





	As It Was

**Author's Note:**

> It appears I am still capable of writing. Regrettably.

Newt keeps the letters in his breast pocket while he travels. 

Not all of them, of course, just the latest ones. It began five months before, in  
Jakarta, when the Acromantula eggs had hatched as he was reading Tina’s newly delivered correspondence. He’d shoved the things into his coat, before levitating a batch of scuttling, dog sized spiders back into the case. 

Now he’s wading through the boreal forests in Alaska, and the letter pressed to his chest reads, Dear Newt, ever since the war ended - 

They’ve fallen into a safe, routine dynamic of Newt jumping from one corner of the world to the other, writing to each other, and meeting back up in New York at the end of each year. Sometimes, Tina will manage to track him down and find him, usually whenever he’s wandered into particularly ugly business. 

But not today. He’s here strictly on research duty. This is one of the last places on the globe that isn’t festered with humans yet, be they magical or not, and Newt intends to bask in it. 

The snapping of twigs and pine needles under his boots is a comforting song, as he walks and walks, often through the night, stalking unicorns and moose. Whenever his legs start to strain, or a hungry groan erupts from the bottom of the case, he’ll stuff it under a pile of leaves and a muttered protego, and climb inside. 

Everything here proceeds as dictated by law of nature. Every creature comes together to perform in this vast stage, where the limits are set by mountains so high they might as well be giants. Looking at the night sky is dangerous, it threatens to steal away your breath and never let it go.

That’s probably why it’s so jarring and discomforting to hear, for the first time in three weeks of patrol, a twin set of footsteps stomping somewhere ahead. Newt slinks behind a trunk, straining to listen: however he tries to convince himself of the contrary, it’s plain that he has company. Of the people variety. 

He peeks. A fur clad silhouette stumbles through the roots, followed by the loud cackling of a crow. The figure crouches, picking at a wood and metal contraption, prying it open and extracting the mangled remains of a sharp tailed grouse. 

With familiarity, he eases the bird into a satchel, heaves it on his shoulder and gives a small huff. 

“I don’t believe that’s legal,” Newt has only partially stepped out from behind the tree. The figure could be carrying one of those no maj rifles. 

“The use of those traps, that is.” 

They stumble, then turn, and have to move their head quite a bit before finally locating Newt. He’s far enough to make a hasty retreat, if necessary, but close too, that he can see the person’s face. 

“Credence?” 

Midday’s closing in, and Credence is still out there. Percival has been stuffing tobacco in his pipe and feeding the furnace both with wood and magic. They’re running low on the first. 

Percival keeps himself from staring out of the window, again. He’s gonna give it another minute. Another minute, and if Credence hasn’t come back, he’ll take the wand out of his holster, and the axe, and cross the line of trees that separates their house from the no maj town. 

There’s a loud snapping sound as the air on the porch parts to allow Credence through. Percival throws the still fuming pipe on the table and opens the door. He tries and smooths his voice free of apprehension. 

“Any luck?” 

Credence is bent in two, hands grasping at the knees. Did he run, before apparating? His crow circles the air above the cabin and gives an ominous caw. Credence’ satchel falls at Percival’s feet, full with game. 

“Someone saw you,” Percival says more than asks. Credence, still heaving, shakes his head up and down. Percival quietly accios the axe. 

“Go inside.” 

While Credence fumbles past the threshold, he fetches the chair. It’s an unrefined, uncomfortable thing, swaying crookedly back and forth. It can barely take Percival’s weight, but he insists on using it. He adjusts so that the axe is snug between his legs, and his wand side hidden.

“Accio pipe,” he says, holding a corner of his mouth open for the thing to slot itself into. He crams another hunk of tobacco in it, pretending not to hear the rustling at the edge of the clearing, and the approaching steps. 

Newt walks forward carefully, blinking at the sudden light: the tree line breaks into a clearing, framed by a chain of mountains. The cabin sits in the middle of this scenario with such familiarity, it could as well be another rock. The vague smell of cattle and wood burning tickles his nostrils. 

“Hello,” he says, stopping at what he considers a safe distance from the stairs that lead on the porch. The man sitting there looks up from his pipe, tilts his head. 

“Sorry to bother,” Newt risks another step, which is when the sun looks down and gleams at the axe resting between the man’s knees. Newt’s eyes flick back to his face: the eyes blink slow, almost sluggishly, but his knuckles are white with the grip. 

“You’re a long way from town,” the man says, nodding at the horizon. “And even farther away from London.” 

“Aha, well. Work.” 

The quiet is broken by the laugh of a crow, closer now: in a flap of large, black wings, he comes to rest on the wooden rails of the porch. Beady eyes glowing an unusual golden brown. 

“Do you live alone?” 

Newt asks, at the same time the man pushes up and stands from his chair. There’s a split second where it looks as if his right leg might give. He answers with an unintelligible grunt and goes to walk back into the house.

Careful, Newt let’s the cool wood of his wand slide along his forearm and into his palm, inch by inch. The words dance quickly from tongue to lips, as his arm whips forward. 

Before he can register any movement, the crow has taken flight with a screech, directly into Newt’s line of vision. Almost immediately, a force impacts and pries the wand from his fingers. Expelliermus. 

Newt stumbles, falling on the moist ground. When he looks again, the man has descended the porch. Instead of a slouch, his body is coiled in a picture perfect rendition of a duelling stance. He didn’t utter a word. 

“I apologize,” Newt licks his dry, chapped lips, tasting grass and a hint of blood. The man’s free hand had also shot up in a quiet swipe of magic.

“Leave.” 

He lets Newt get back on his feet, still clutching his case, before echoing himself, “Leave. We don’t want any problems.” 

“The young man you’re hiding - do you know who he is?” 

One of the man’s eyebrows ticks downward, hand curling tighter around his wand. It’s a rough thing, little more than a stick, but the way he holds it - you’d think it the most special wand-wood galleons could buy. 

Newt splays both hands open in the air, but doesn’t waver, “If you are going so far to protect him, then we have a common goal. I’m not here to harm him or you.” 

“Bold claim to make right after you attempt to stun me.” 

Newt tilts his head down, tapping his chin against his chest in a gesture he hopes registers as apologetic, “I’d taken you for a particularly uncooperative muggle,” he mutters, “I was only going to petrify you, perhaps - “

“Perhaps you should stop talking,” the man says, more forceful now, “ - and leave.” 

“Will you let me talk to him? For a moment, just, there’s so many things he needs to know - ah.” 

The man blinks as Newt’s eyes focus on a spot behind his shoulder. He turns and, sure enough, Credence is standing in the door, peeking from a curtain of wind swept curls. 

“Go back inside,” Percival hisses, but Credence only frowns at him, pushing a hand forward into the air. Wait. Percival shakes his head, bewildered, eyes dancing back and forth. 

“We can’t trust him,” he urges, as Credence trots down the steps and places both, placating palms onto his back. He reaches up to pinch at Percival’s ear lobe, pulling slightly. Listen. 

“Credence,” Newt calls the attention back on himself, not without some reluctance, “Do you remember me? From the subway? Paris?” Newt’s words are followed by a sharp, hissing sound from the man, who still stands, wand raised, between him and Credence. 

Credence gives one, slow nod, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He remains quiet, even when Newt leaves pause for him to speak. Sweat beads run down the man’s brow, along the smooth slope of his nose. 

“My name is Newt Scamander. We never had the chance to properly introduce ourselves,” then, quickly dropping to his knees. The man tenses, looking as if he might pounce.

Newt quickly undoes the buckles on his case, reaching in for a large metal tin. 

“Tea?” 

They predictably refuse to descend into the case, and he is instead allowed into the cabin. As he crosses the threshold, he shivers at the multiple protective spells reluctantly giving way around the shape of him. 

The space is larger inside, a corridor opening where the back of the house should be. Further down, Two doors, and a small window. The man pushes a chair out of the roughly cut wooden table, cocking one eyebrow. 

Credence had taken the tin from Newt with gentle fingers and a questioning, shy look. He’s now alternating between brewing coffee and pouring Twinings in two, chipped cups. Curiously enough, he does all this manually. 

Newt sits, tucking the case between his boots. No one talks as each cup is placed in front of the respective drinkers - the man paws at his coffee with a quiet thanks. Newt wraps his hands around his own cup with a small smile and a nod. 

After taking several sips, Newt realizes he’s expected to talk. Explain. He stares from Credence to the man, picking at his lower lip. Where to start?

“I suppose wizarding newspapers aren’t delivered here? No, right.” 

“The war is over. At least - on the magical front. The no majs are still fighting, obviously,” he gesticulates, setting the tea aside. The man sits back against his chair, chest expanding around a large breath. Credence listens, rapt. 

“MACUSA has relinquished all soldiers from the fronts. Grindelwald’s followers are enough trouble to deal with.” 

Credence visibly recoils, hands gripping the side of the table. He turns to look at the man, waving his hands incomprehensibly. The man takes the movements in with an alarmed frown of his own, before looking sideways at Newt. 

“Is he dead?” 

His lips barely move when he speaks, but his voice carries loud and clear.

“No,” Newt reaches for the cup and takes another gulp, “But he’s under custody now. The trial has already been carried out. They’re keeping him at Nurmengard - him and his followers. It’s a prison now.”

Credence makes a noise in the back of his throat, which Newt later registers as a scoff. 

“How secure is it?” The man inquires, still frowning. “Are you sure you can - “

“Hold him? Yes. The fight with Dumbledore almost did kill him,” finally, Newt lowers the empty mug. The warmth in his stomach won’t settle, as he resists the urge to question Credence. 

“They’re looking for you,” he murmurs, almost confidentially. Credence doesn’t seem surprised, although his eyebrows make a sharp upturn. He shuts his eyes and hums softly, as if the very concept physically hurts him. 

“What does MACUSA want?” The man insists, although he keeps an eye on Credence rather than Newt. If Credence were to lash out and make it clear he’d had enough, Newt is sure the man would cease his questioning and throw him back into the forest. 

“It’s not just MACUSA,” Newt admits, almost pained. “It’s an international affair, now. The British Ministry of Magic is also involved, as with the rest of the European Coalition.” 

Credence’s hands raise to grip at his elbows, in a quiet hug. Still, his silence seems to spur Newt on.

“They believe you are an accomplice of Grindelwald,” Newt says, “ - but, there’s also an argument in your case being made! Your brother, Albus, he’s doing everything in his power —“

The chair scapes against the floor with a shriek as Credence stands. He briskly walks over to the small window by the kitchenette, leaning a shoulder against the wall. Newt apologies with half a voice, eyes drooping low. 

When he finds it in him to look, Credence seems focused on something very distant outside of the window. After a moment, he walks over to the table and places a light hand over the man’s. 

“It’s almost supper time,” the man says, with a tone that suggests he’s only vaguely aware of what he just said. “And it gets dark quick out here. You are welcome to stay the night.” 

Credence is now rummaging through sacks of vegetables and herbs. Newt opens his mouth to talk, but quickly clinks his teeth together. There’s a contained shudder to Credence’s back, which he keeps turned to them both. 

“However, tomorrow you will leave.” 

Newt rips his eyes from Credence to blink at the man. His eyes have regained their hardiness and presence. 

“I cannot risk you bringing unwanted attention here,” he leans away from the table, fixing Newt with a glare, “ - and if you intend to tip us off to the Ministry, or MACUSA -“

“I never meant - You think I want to see Credence in a cell?” 

The man’s eyes slowly saunter to Credence, who casts a brief look at them from above one shoulder. 

“I think you don’t know what you’re going up against,” he sighs. 

Dinner consists of stew, the meat earthy with the taste of freshly caught game. The bread is a day too old, which makes it stiff, but soaking it in the mushroom soup makes it eatable. Even good. All in all, Newt has eaten much worse. 

“Credence takes care of cooking the food,” the man comments, halfway through his plate. “I’m terrible. If you’d left it to me, we’d all starve.” 

Newt glances at Credence, who ducks to hide a smile, and pats his bicep before jabbing a finger at the man’s chest. He snorts. 

“He says I’m lazy. No aptitude.” 

The man has a charm that Newt can’t deny, and it comes out in bursts. Between one scowl and another, he finds him joking somewhat amicably. His sarcasm cuts a tad too sharp, but his lopsided grin seems to always peek out just when annoyance is getting the best of him, as if to say, what, you’re really mad?

When the kitchen’s window has turned to a square of pure black, Newt makes a hasty retreat. Credence rises to point him towards a room, at the very end of the corridor. 

It’s a Spartan little space, walls decorated with dried flowers and pieces of moss carefully draped to dry over the windowsill. Credence moves through the space with an ease that indicates ownership, as he quickly scoops a few cloths off the floor. 

With a sharp flick of his wrist, the beddings rise in an arch into the air, then straighten and tuck themselves into the mattress. Newt clutches the handle to his case, as Credence shuffles towards the door. 

Newt ponders complimenting Credence on the silent spell. Credence hangs by the threshold, too, seemingly waiting for Newt to say something. 

“I ate very well tonight,” Newt smiles, “Thank you.” 

Credence gives a small nod, opening his mouth for a second before clasping his lips together. He nods again, then softly shuts the door. 

Newt doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, he really doesn’t. But it’s such a clear, beautiful night - he’d promised the moon calf to let them out for a night graze for weeks now. 

He stalks down the corridor as stealthy as his socked feet will allow. There’s a stripe of orange light shining from underneath the other door, and a voice muffled, rumbling from the other side. 

“I know you don’t need - oh, Mercy Lewis, I know, I know!” 

Newt wills his legs to move. But that’s when a floorboard decides to creak ominously. 

“Stubborn. Don’t sulk — “ 

The voice ceases, in favor of a deep sigh. As Newt finds his footing, there’s a shuffling and a thumping. The noises which follow, Newt decides are better left unheard. 

He watches the moon calfs bask in the night mist for three hours. When he returns to the corridor, the light has gone off.

Newt sleeps erratic and wakes hastily, startling at the bed, after weeks of collapsing inside his case. In a quick show of reflexes, he palms the floor for it: the comforting, worn edge greets his fingers like an affectionate pet. There’s a light, ritmic scratching from the inside of it. 

“Not too long now,” he says, tutting and stroking the top of it until the scratching vanishes. 

He walks the steps down the corridor while trying to scrape clumps of grass from his socks. The man is already up, sitting close to the stove, monitoring the browning surface of a half of bread. In an adjacent pan, an egg cracks itself, spilling against the metal with a hiss. 

“Come sit,” the man says, more order than courtesy. Still, Newt obliges. 

“Credence is still sleeping?” 

“Let him,” he replies, reading Newt’s tone wrongly. Before Newt can argue, he adds, “It’s a luxury he couldn’t enjoy before.” He speaks without turning once towards the  
table, where Newt has taken a seat next to the narrow opening in the wall. 

“He told you that?” 

The man falls silent once again. The scene outside of the window is swathed in hazy greys and greens, fog seeping between the tree trunks and lapping the ground wet. A slight, damp odor pervades the cabin, quickly mingling with the smell of food. 

A plate clunks underneath Newt’s nose, and the man hands him a bent fork. Newt nods his thanks. 

“Credence doesn’t speak,” he says, once they’ve both settled. He bites at his toasted bread, licking a stripe of butter from his lip. “I don’t know why. He hasn’t spoken a word since he came here. We have other ways of understanding each other, besides.” 

“How’d you find him?” Newt asks, around a mouthful of runny yolk. He thinks he remembers seeing a smaller, wooden construction to the side of the house. A chicken coop. 

The man shakes his head, “Other way around.” 

“I was coming back from the woods, I’d finished chopping apart one that had fallen. I’d gotten right up to the door, but when I turned, I saw something far off in the forest. It looked like - “ he coughs, picking a crumb off his shirt. 

“It looked like the sun. And then there was this sound, like a song. Before I knew it I was marching back into the trees. I walked and walked, even past the spot where the fallen trunk had been. It was calling for help, right? I couldn’t stop walking.” 

“Eventually I broke out into a clearing I’d never seen. The trees were all dead. Not burned, just. Drained. Black. Some completely uprooted. The song stopped and it was like waking from a long dream. So I looked down, into a small crater, the snow melted off and - there he was.” 

Newt sucks air through his teeth, twirling the fork into the cold whites. The man frowns disapprovingly, though, so he takes another bite. 

“He was half dead, naked in the snow. So I carried him on my back, brought him here.” 

“And the… the light, the song - “ Newt is interrupted by a ruffling of feathers. He turns to look at the open furnace. What he had mistaken for a pile of ashes flaps it’s large, black wings and sits up. 

“Smart bird,” the man says, “Charmed itself when Credence decided to stay. Took a while to learn to sound like one.” 

As he stares into the eyes of the camouflaged phoenix, Newt remembers what Dumbledore had said to him ages ago, in a deserted corner of Paris. All the air leaves his lungs in one, long exhale. 

There’s a moment which they both spend contemplating the morning quiet. 

“Do you know what this means,” Newt whispers, watching the phoenix peck at its feathers. It seems to be aware of Newt’s attention, mirroring his look with a curiosity that normal animals lack. 

“You clearly know better than me,” the man drawls, “So why ask.” 

Newt hums, pondering the next words. His host has been very kind, considering Newt had tried to stun him upon their first encounter. He’d been so hasty and winded, he only looked, and didn’t see. 

“You’re a long way from New York,” he says. 

Percival’s eyes narrow into thin slits, but his face remains otherwise unreadable, and his lips sealed. Newt raps his knuckles nervously over the table’s tough surface. 

“Everyone thinks you’re dead -“ 

“Good.”

Percival stands, going to poke some life back into the furnace. The Phoenix flutters out and into the corridor, landing on Credence’s shoulder. Percival sees him first, but it’s Newt who greets him.

They exchange one, long look, and Percival wonders how long Credence had stood quietly in the doorframe, just out of view. 

Credence turns, raising his hand in a small wave, as he trots out the door to check if Beauregard has laid any eggs. 

“Tina feels horribly guilty.” 

Percival murmurs an incendio into the charred remains of a log, coaxing a flame from it. Should he be saddened? Flattered? There’s a hollow feeling right under his throat, an emptiness. Spite trickles slowly into it, until he can barely contain it from spilling out.

Good, he thinks, but doesn’t say. 

There’s nothing to pack, and Newt moves quickly. Off to Portofino next, to research mermaids. 

“You be careful,” Percival croaks, “there’s a bear doing the rounds out here. Big one, nasty guy. He’s loud, but he usually books it with a good oppugno.” 

Newt frowns at the suggestion of casting offensive spells on a beast, and Percival  
shares a knowing look with Credence. They exchange another round of goodbyes, and Newt approaches the tree line. 

Before stepping through the bushes, he walks back to push a scrap of parchment into Credence’s hands. 

“Feel free to write. Here’s a safe address.” 

Credence’s mouth hangs open in a small, rounded “o”. Then he gives a small nod, which Newt imitates. Then, without much fanfare, he hurries briskly past Graves and disappears into the forest. 

Percival usually apparates down to Cordova once every month. It’s quaint and sparsely populated, and the people are generally easy to bid with. It’s where he got Credence’s chicken, Beauregard. It’s also where he goes when he needs to reacquaint himself with the taste of alcohol. 

He doesn’t deal in no maj money. People assume he’s a vagrant, a doctor of some kind, and are content to accept what he brings. Percival was never a master in Potions, but none of them should know any better. It’s nothing serious, really, he’s not completely reckless. But they do need to eat.

He’s made his terms clear: he’s not responsible for the damage his gifts may bring to an unsuitable user. So far, he hasn’t had any complaints. 

Credence had been curious about the craft. Watched him pore over a pot he’d engorgioed into a usable cauldron, scraping bits and pieces from his memory of Potion Making. Writing down what works. Eye of newt and field bindweed, and a single Phoenix tear - requested most politely - make for a concoction that’ll keep at bay most coughs and flus. 

“Back at Ilvermorny, we used to have shelves full of ingredients ready at hand. Here - we gotta make do.” 

Percival knows Credence enjoys hearing about magical schools. His eyes always grow wide as saucers and his mouth quirks up in the smallest of grins. 

As he stirred the potion, Credence had tapped his free arm with a finger, before mimicking the motion. He ten pointed at himself, with the same finger, sheepish. Percival frowned and took a moment, as he always did when Credence made up a new idiom. 

“You want… to help me stir?”

Credence nodded, before tilting his head to the right, expression somewhat dissatisfied. He grabbed a handful of weeds, sitting by the foot of the cauldron, and shook it lightly. Percival stopped, letting the ladle sink down to its middle into the bubbling liquid. 

“You want to gather the herbs?” Another curt nod. Then a tilt. Credence splayed both palms on the table and stared hard downwards. Percival remained quiet, waiting for him to find the words. 

He’d pointed at Percival’s chest. Right, easy enough. Then himself. You and I. 

“You want to make potions t — oh.” Percival blinked at the cauldron, before returning to Credence. “You want me to teach you?” 

Credence let out a sigh of relief, nodding his head hard up and down, hair whipping across his face. Percival chuckled at the exaggerated display, which prompted Credence to flush red and sink a few inches under the table. 

“Alright,” he’d said, “ - but you should know, I’m a terrible teacher.” 

It occurred to Percival only later, that Grindelwald would probably not have bothered imparting potion lessons on Credence. 

They don’t venture into that territory, but Percival is willing to bet, the boy he once thought so defenseless now has an extensive grasp on offensive curses and jinxes, as well as an intimate knowledge of the Unforgivables. 

And still, Percival can’t convince him to pick up a crossbow. Much less a no maj gun, to hunt with. If Grindelwald had gifted him with a wand, it is nowhere to be seen. Not that he needs it. 

He’s finished dealing. Sold a much weaker version of Felix Felicis to a hunter, in exchange for hare pelts - from which he plans to fashion a pair of gloves, so Credence’s hands will stop reddening and scabbing at the back.

The lady from the apothecary bought one for her husband’s chronic pains, and returned with cheese and bread wrapped in a warm cloth. 

Percival has learnt to appreciate the small miseries people can afford here. He’s had to swallow pride enough times to learn how bitter it tastes. In the summer, they’ll make jam. 

He’s walking off into the ticket, the road which he usually takes before apparating back home, mindful of the children - they sometimes trail behind, throwing pebbles at his boots and giggling. 

The one skulking in the fast growing shadows is no child. Percival glimpses them as they duck out of view behind a corner. He keeps striding, resolute, into the tree line. Slowly, he inches his wand out of the holster. 

They’re fast. Clumsy, too, as they run over a thick blanket of fallen pine needles. Percival whips around in time to catch them as they raise their wand. They both stay posed. 

“Freeze!” Tina growls through gritted teeth. Her voice has grown older, or perhaps Percival more sentimental. “You’re under arrest for illegal potion trading with no majs. Lower your wand and step into the light.”

Percival has already begun to walk the steady incline. From his vantage point, she can’t see his face. 

“You’d think that bear would do its job,” Percival says. “I take it Mr Scamander has found his way out of the forest.”

Tina’s wand arm drops a fraction, face contorting. Her mouth twists into an ugly curve, as she repeats, “Step out.” Percival takes his time strapping the wand back in its place, and adjusting the bag over his shoulder. 

He looks up into the sky. It’s gonna be dark soon, maybe in an hour. He’s never been late, but Credence knows he ought to stay put. Since Newt’s visit, though, he’d grown restless. 

He walks past Tina with some finality. 

“Fancy a beer, Goldstein?” 

She doesn’t stop staring as they walk side by side to the pub. They sit at a smaller table, near the door. The place has already begun to bustle with the evening crowd. It’s no ball room and it fills quickly, wooden walls creaking as if to accommodate the entirety of town. 

When Percival has waved off the waiter for a beer, he turns to see Tina’s eyes boring into his. 

“That bad?” He scratches his cheek, a solid wall of coarse hair. He hates the thing, trims it just enough to justify having it. Still, as the run in with Scamander had proved, it does help. 

“It’s you,” she says, frowning. The yellow lights cast an unfavorable shadow which highlights the creases across her forehead and by her eyes. Sweet Morgana, it’s been only five years. 

“But how?” 

The waiter, a lanky boy with a slight cross-eye, tumbles by their table and lays the beer down in front of Percival. The door opens for another group of men, and a chilling wind seeps into their coats. 

Percival peers at the golden brown liquid, pinching the tip of tongue between his front teeth. He takes a swig. 

“He left me for dead. I don’t know when — it was hard to track time. But he’d been distracted. I broke my way out of the pit he’d thrown me in and ran.” Another gulp. Remembering puts a heave in his breath, it makes him wheeze.

“I just ran. I didn’t know where I was going. I wasn’t completely there, either, my legs carried me on and on and on. Until I stopped here. I found a place, up in the mountains. At first I was just looking for a quiet place to die,” he snorts, teeth clinking against the edge of the glass. 

“But then I woke up. I patched myself as good as I could and… went on.”

“Went on?” Tina’s voice is little above a whisper. 

He nods. There’s really nothing else he can say. His memories are jumbled, more confused the farther since Credence appeared. Tina seems to understand. She gestures for the boy to come over, and orders a beer of her own..

“It’s all such a mess,” she says into her pint, to which Percival answers with a resounding hum. They both drink in silence for a while. 

“Why haven’t you come back?”

In the days following Newt’s departure, Percival had wondered why he hadn’t asked him that question. To be fair, he’d been less inquisitive than one would imagine. Perhaps he wasn’t looking to upset Credence too much. 

Either way, he’s had plenty of time to think about the answer. 

“There’s nothing to come back to,” he says, simply, shrugging. “He took my wand, my face, my house. When I think about… coming back, having to stay in those spaces he stole from me — “ he bites at his cheek, riding a bout of boiling anger. 

“Most days I can’t even stand to look at a mirror.” 

Tina drains the last of her beer, licking foam from her lip. Her eyes are wide and red, a slouch to her back as she pushes the glass aside and joins her hands on the table. 

“I’m sorry - “

“Don’t,” Percival waves a gloved hand in her face, maybe a bit too forceful, “Just don’t.” 

She rolls with it, holds her tongue. Her mouth reduced to a thin, white line, perfectly horizontal. Percival orders them both another round, then watches as Tina ignores hers in favor of studying the patterns on the tablecloth. 

“Is it true,” she asks, after a time, “Is Credence alive?” 

Percival straightens his back, sends a sweeping look through the bar. Then he looks at Tina, whom for all he knows still works at MACUSA. He’s being ridiculous, of course - Tina was the first to risk her career and life to protect Credence, before anyone knew of his true nature.

“Yes,” he says.

Tina’s eyes fall shut, and she puckers her lips to let go of a long, long breath. A shaky exhale. She digs the palms of her hands into her eyes, gives a rough rub, before going back to looking at him. 

“How is he?” She asks, voice suddenly softer, like he’d remembered it. Percival tilts his head this way and that. 

“Better. Not doing so good when he first arrived. Nearly squashed me into the mountain when he woke up and recognized me.” 

It had been one of the most terrifying moments of Percival’s life. He thought he’d stared death down before, rolling in the trenches, or battling dark wizards. 

But then he’d seen Credence’s pupils widen and drown in a pool of white sclera, his body twisting into curls of smoke and spitting fire. He knows now it was all show: Credence was cut open and confused and terrified. Most of all he’d wanted to change that.

When Credence truly wants to be deadly he doesn’t bother with the showy transformations. 

“So he can - control it?” 

Percival nods. He stops halfway through the motion; he thinks Credence can control the thing. He hasn’t blown up the house in a feat of magic, yet. He doesn’t shift as soon as he grows upset. 

But the pain of it is still there. How it’ll come in the early hours of the morning and leave him boneless and exhausted for the rest of the day. The nightmares. Sometimes Percival thinks Credence is so busy keeping the Obscurus from hurting others that he ignores how it hurts him. 

“That is monumental. If we were able to prove to the Council that, then they would have to revoke the death sentence.” 

Percival sputters the last of his beer back into the glass. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, honestly. 

“Newt didn’t tell you,” she sighs. 

“Must’ve escaped him,” Percival coughs, repressing a bout of annoyance. He slides a hand over his face, suddenly feeling a weight settle over his shoulders. He’s so tired. Of course MACUSA would issue the death penalty for Credence, but allow Grindelwald to only be jailed. 

“To be fair, I did rush him along,” he admits, nodding to Tina, “I was afraid he’d attract attention to us. To Credence.” 

The correction is quick, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Tina’s eyebrows quirk up, “Well, you were right and wrong. I was sent here because we’d been tipped off that someone was selling potions, and Newt is being followed - but no one suspects you’re here. I mean,” she scoffs, sitting back in her chair. 

“ - everyone thinks you’re dead. I thought you were.” 

“Yeah. In your defense, I did everything I could to make you think I was,” He coughs, looking at the bubbles popping on the bottom of the glass. The air in the pub is growing warmer as more people come in, and suddenly Percival twists in his chair to look out the window. 

The sight that greets him is that of a pitch black sky. 

“I have to go,” he mutters, as Tina quickly extracts a stack of no maj currency and slaps it on the table. 

“Wait!”

He’s out the door, walking stiff on his right leg - he’d gotten up too sudden, put too much weight on the knee. Tina easily catches up, and they share one look in the golden light coming from within the pub before the door shuts and they’re both plunged in darkness. There’s no moon. 

“Could I visit?” She asks. Then, before Percival can reply, “I need to know he’s alright. Please, Mr Graves.”

This is the first time she has referred to him by name. It rings hollow, the connection of syllables foreign. Maybe it’s the months he’s spent living with someone completely mute, or maybe it’s another damage Grindelwald left in his wake. 

He’s half tempted to tell her no, and apparate away. All these people suddenly wanting to intrude on his and Credence’s life - it feels wrong. Letting Newt inside the cabin was a concession born out of circumstance. And now this. 

Maybe he’s just fucked in the head. Doubting even the people who trusted him the most. Maybe he should leave the decision to Credence. 

Except Credence isn’t here. He’s confined to the cabin, past the forest, under his order. Demand. Request? 

He gives her some quick, but simple instructions on how to reach the clearing. Points out landmarks, where to turn, which streams to cross. They agree on a date, so that if she does get lost, Percival will venture down to meet her. 

“I’ll have to arrange things. Can I write to you? Do you have an owl, or - ?” 

“Yes, yes, that’s fine. Now I need to go,” he stares impatiently between Tina and the path. It feels like there’s something more he should say. Something like, it wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known. 

“Tina?”

Her faint outline in the dark shifts ever so slightly, waiting.

“Don’t think about it too much.” 

There’s a bright, red point of fire that burns through the forest. Percival follows it home, preferring not to apparate while inebriated. When he breaks into the clearing, stumbling over a root, the Phoenix sings a long, plaintive note. 

Credence unfolds from his crouch over the porch railings, all but running into Percival’s chest. He searches blindly with his hands for any sign of hurt, straining to detect any bruises on Percival’s face without the aid of moonlight. 

“I’m fine, stop fretting,” 

He walks inside with Credence right by his side, pulling at his arm. He makes Percival sit down next to the furnace, which is blaring, and examines him closely.

After curling his nose, he raises his elbow with a harsh look. The realization that Percival was not in danger, but just out drinking, washes over him and he can see it twist his face. Disappointment. Percival bitterly remembers a time where Credence had been afraid to meet his eye. 

“I met Tina Goldstein,” he says, driving a startle out of him. “She asked after you. I think she might visit sometime soon.”

He lets a sigh rattle through his rib cage and out of his mouth, “Everything is happening all at once. I thought this place could be only for us,” he stares into the fire, even if the light hurts his eyes. 

There’s a thud as Credence sinks to his knees, head of wild hair dangerously close to the open mouth of the furnace. His arms encircle Percival’s calves, while his face sits on his left knee. 

Percival has lost all interest in the flames. He bites off one of his gloves, and reaches to card his fingers through Credence’s hair. He gives an experimental stroke, thumb circling slow. 

“It’s late. Have you been up all this time?” 

He must be a terrible person. The image of Credence pacing anxiously in the clearing, it tugs at something deep in his chest. 

“Were you that worried?” 

As a response, Credence squeezes his legs tighter. 

Percival laughs, rubbing at the smile spreading over his face, “I’m sorry, kid, I don’t mean to - it’s just. Aha — 

“That’s a real nice feeling.” 

In the wait for Tina’s letter, they keep living. 

Fall bleeds into winter, and the cold bites harsher up in the mountains than any warming charms can help. Still, they try. Credence helps him gather wood - to feel useful, he says. 

Percival knows, deep down, he doesn’t like the thought of him out there, in a snowstorm, with his ruined leg. Which hurts like a motherfucker, now more than ever, humidity seeping into his flesh and driving painful jolts out of his badly healed bones.

With what little they have left from the spring, and Percival’ stilted instruction, Credence crafts some kind of ointment - which, given some thought, is closer to no maj medicine than wizard potions. 

Percival wishes he could make something for Credence’s episodes that was as helpful. The winter season seems to make the Obscurus restless, as if the lack of light and the near constant house confinement angered it. 

These days, it’s easy to think of it as something totally removed from Credence. Not an aspect of his self, but an unwelcome guest.

Some days they’re both wracked with a pain of their own, stranded in their respective beds. One will limp to the others’ room and sink next to them. 

If dark and cold make it angry, touch seems to soothe it. Percival will fall asleep and wake up with Credence nestled over him, sharp elbows digging into the meat of his sides. 

Percival usually does the talking, if there is any, but more often Credence will whistle a tune just to have the crow sing it back. 

It becomes a game. The crow can reproduce most simple hymns easy enough, but it takes a few tries to manage the pitch of the songs Percival whistles to it. 

By the last snowfall the bird has learnt Prove It On Me and After You’ve Gone, All Ye Tenderhearted and Be Still My Soul. 

One morning as the flowers begin to poke through the thick carpet of white, an owl comes sweeping through the kitchen window and startles Credence into dropping his buttered bread in the furnace. 

As Percival extricates Tina’s letter from it, the crow hops closer to it, clicking its beak to the tune of Wasted Life Blues. Credence cradles some crumbs into his cupped hands and leaves a pile of it by the owl’s talons. It quickly begins to peck at it, seemingly unimpressed by the crow’s performance. 

Coming over in a week. Sorry for the wait. Don’t write back - being monitored. I’m working on it.

A weight drops in Percival’s stomach, but he schools his face to look unfazed. He tosses the paper into the fire, and Credence ceases petting the owl to let out an affronted noise.

Percival grins, “Nothing about you, you diva. She’s coming in a week. We better tidy up the place - and you need to take care of that peach fuzz.” 

In the weeks of isolation, sparse tufts of hair had sprouted over Credence’s cheeks, never fully developing into a proper beard. It had been endearing, for a time. Credence gives a self conscious rub at his chin. 

“That’s right. Just because we live in the forest doesn’t mean we have to look like animals.” 

Beauregard picks at the first strands of fresh grass, while Percival lays a basin in the garden and murmurs aguamenti until it’s full. They have no soap - or anything to shave with, and once again Percival feels the pangs of pride as he lowers his upper body into the water and scrapes hard with his nails. 

Credence watches from the porch, visibly uncomfortable. When it’s his turn, he steps down to the front on uneasy feet, holding himself. Percival shakes the water out of his hair, before emptying the thing and refilling it. 

“There you go,” he huffs, as he scurgifies his shirt. 

When he doesn’t hear the tell tale sound of sloshing water, he looks up - only to have Credence promptly wave him away, a tentative hand to the hem of his blouse. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Percival sighs, complying nonetheless and staring out into the horizon. 

The sky is a pale blue, made brighter by the pale circle of the sun. It’s around nine in the morning, and the town must just be waking up. He wonders if he can take a quick trip to buy that gramophone he saw two weeks ago - surely even out here they’ll have  
heard from Ma Rainy?

He turns to proposition the idea to Credence, momentarily forgetting he’s not supposed to be staring. 

Credence is knelt over the basin, splashing water into his chest, back to Percival. Under the sun, his scars seem to shine the color of bleached bone, discolored, rising and falling across the otherwise smooth skin in a grotesque imitation of the mountain  
range. 

As Percival said, nothing he’s not seen before. It leaves quite an impression however, out in the day, that is lost to the candlelight in the dark. He grinds his teeth and lets his eyes fall to the ground as he shuffles around. 

Beauregard clucks at him, before scurrying off to Credence’s side. 

“Don’t pick it up, the gross thing,” Percival groans, as Credence smiles and helps Beauregard into the basin. She sinks and screeches and almost claws Credence’s face raw in an attempt to get out. 

Who was supposed to know that chickens don’t like water? Percival has half a mind to roast it for the trouble. Credence spends the rest of the day trying to regain the chicken’s trust, tutting at it with a proffered handful of seeds. 

The next morning, Percival descends into town and bargains for shaving cream. The store clerk lets him off mostly on pity, or so Percival assumes, but that’s alright. Small miseries. 

He fashions a steak knife into a razor, cradling the blade on his fingertips. Credence sits outside, waiting for his turn, shoveling snow from the pathway. 

There’s a small mirror by the stove, which Percival ignores on most days. He looks tentatively out of the window, catching a glimpse of Beauregard hobbling away from a crouching Credence, before meeting his reflection’s eyes. 

By the time Percival is done, he’s managed to catch and cradle the bird into his arms. 

Percival throws the towel his way, but Credence opts instead to blink owlishly at his face. It’s such an honest, shameless sentiment, Percival has to nod his head down at the floor. 

“What?” 

Credence shrugs, eyes falling away. He holds a knuckle to his face and moves it up and down, before pointing at Percival. 

“Right - “ he coughs, holding the razor by the blade and offering it to him. “You, now. Go on.” 

It turns out, unsurprisingly, Credence has to be coached through this lest he fixes himself a new pair of lips. He squawks indignantly at Percival’s jabs, grasping the razor with awkward fingers. 

Percival reaches to wipe a small cut on his cheekbone, hissing episkey. Credence gives another huff, but doesn’t move away. In the end - it's not such a disaster. He supposes they look almost presentable. 

“We could cut your hair too,” he says, while making dinner. He holds up a soup bowl which is quickly yanked out of his hand and thrown against the opposite wall. Credence doesn’t raise a hand, content with glaring daggers into Percival. 

Halfway through, Credence stops eating and begins to pick at the meat. Percival watches for a while, feeling a similar weight forming in his guts, vanquishing all his hunger. 

“Nervous?” He asks. Credence sets the bowl to the side, licks his lips. The low light of the candles, and the furnace, sets the black of his hair ablaze. He nods, minute and quick, as if scared to let Percival catch it. 

Percival takes a sip of water, it washes out his sore throat. 

“That’s alright. It’s gonna be okay, we - we can trust Tina,” he says, “I trust Tina.”

“No, that’s not true,” he finds himself pushing the plate away too, raking his hands across a newly shaven face. The feeling of skin is new, after months, and slightly discomforting. 

“I don’t trust anyone anymore but, that’s not her fault. Shit, I - “ 

Credence’s fingers slowly encircle his wrist, gently pulling at it until his palms leave the pit of his eyes. His free hand slides up to cup Percival’s cheek. His hand is made uneven by a crisscross of scars, layers of skin torn open and stretched close, year after year, rough but brittle at the same time, and Percival lets himself sink into it for a moment. 

“So you do like it?” 

The woman herself comes knocking. Percival is bent over the furnace, stoking it, because even with the spring there’s a breeze that keeps slithering in through the boards and into his sinuses. 

He opens the door to Tina, and she offers him a tight lipped smile before slinking inside. 

“Sorry - I didn’t know how early was too early, and then I had to shake off my partner —“

“You came here with someone?” 

All the good intentions Percival had matured the night before, in the afterglow, are immediately extinguished. He strides over to the window and curses under his breath, silently redoubling the charms shielding the cabin.

“I took care of it,” she replies, tone just as clipped. There’s an undercurrent of, I’m not an idiot, which Percival would love to rectify upon. He stares back at her, hard, trying to convey disappointment. 

Before Tina can echo herself, no doubt sparking an argument, a set of footsteps enters the kitchen. Credence blinks at the both of them, one hand still half raised in the motion of scratching the crow’s neck. It leaps off his shoulder to land on top of a shelf, where it promptly takes nest. 

“Credence,” she speaks his name in the same breath of a long sigh, as if it was a stone weighing on her chest, and seeing him in person had nudged it rolling down the slope of her navel. 

Percival kicks himself for not remembering to mention. Credence takes a few steps forward, awkwardly holding out his hand. Tina claps it between her own, smile large, straining her thin cheeks. 

For a while, they all stand in silence, contemplating the scene. Then Tina lets go, clears her throat a few times and wipes both hands on her coat. It’s Percival’s cue to invite her to sit. 

Credence walks over to the stove to warm some milk. He keeps stealing looks at Tina, over one shoulder, and then at Percival, as if confirming what is happening. 

“It’s been a long while, huh,” she says, to no one in particular, “I’m glad to see you doing well. I knew Mr Graves could be trusted with that.” 

Percival winces at the sudden praise, “Hardly did anything,” he mutters. 

Another stretch of quiet. Tina’s expression is beginning to sour, as Credence keeps silent. Percival had secretly hoped meeting her again would stun him out of his mutism. 

Leaning back against the stove, Credence waves for Percival’s attention. He points to Tina, before grasping his throat with a few fingers. Explain. By the hurried shake in his movements, Percival deduces it just occurred to him she can’t understand his signs. 

“Right,” Percival clasps both hands in front of his face, “Credence wants me to tell you, he can’t talk. It’s been like this since he came here. He’s - we’re not sure what happened.” 

Percival has a hunch, and from the dawning realization on Tina’s face, so does she. Credence turns back to the stove, probably to escape Tina’s pained gaze. 

“Oh, oh no.” 

A bird chirps outside. It’s not so bad, Percival wants to say, but he knows to anyone stranger to the situation it would seem like a cruelty. It’s the truth of trauma not many people want to acknowledge: how boring it becomes.

Credence can’t speak. Percival’s vision goes spotty if he thinks too far back in his memory. They also cook and hunt and own a very entitled chicken named Beauregard. 

But Tina doesn’t see the full picture. She just sees the tragedy of it, and she pities, and Percival knows it must bother Credence because he makes a run to the outside to fetch some eggs. 

When he’s out, Tina bores her eyes into the side of Percival’ skull. 

“Not a word?” She whispers. 

Percival quickly shakes his head. He hears her cursing, before taking in another deep breath. The air is beginning to grow warmer, thanks to the furnace. The crow looks intently at the fire, before leaping again and into it.

It’s a testament to Tina’ shock that she doesn’t even flinch. 

“Mr Graves,” she clears her throat, and Percival knows what she’s going to say long before she’s opened her mouth, like he knows the notes that follow the opening to Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1. 

“I’m not coming back,” he says, curt, half whispering and half spitting. “Case closed.”

“If you remain here, Credence has no hope of escaping his sentence!” She braces herself against the table, short bitten nails digging into oak. 

“My staying here is precisely what’s keeping Credence from his sentence,” his chair scrapes back as he goes to rise. Tina follows him, mirroring his frustration with a scowl of her own. 

And she’d be openly giving him a piece of her mind, if Credence hadn’t come in right at that moment. He cradles three eggs in the crook of his elbow, close to his chest, face angled low. 

Silence falls again as he shuffles over to the stove and places the eggs on the counter. He stops heating the milk. He doesn’t look at either of them. 

It’s Tina who speaks first, “Credence? Can we please have a moment?” She glances at Percival, then at the slightly ajar door. There’s that breeze again. Percival shoulders past Credence on his way through, but doesn’t meet his eyes. He leaves muttering something about cutting some more wood.

It’s another twenty minutes before Tina emerges from the cabin, alone. Percival has taken up on his word, and is now hacking away at what few wood is left from the winter. It had taken all his pride not to slither over to the kitchen window and listen in. 

Now that they see each other in the light of day, blaring and beautiful, they seem to remember that they do, in fact, have some kindling of affection for one another. Percival leaves the axe hanging by his side, and Tina offers another smile. 

She doesn’t ask him again.

“He really does seem well,” she says instead, “ - You too.” 

Percival barks out a laugh, which makes them both flinch. 

“Always were a shit liar, Tina.” 

Credence comes out half an hour after Tina’s left. He stands impossibly still in the corner of Percival’s vision, watching him swing the axe over and over. Finally, he caves. 

“What?” 

Percival kicks another split log into the pile, waiting for Credence’s hands to start their fluttering. Show him something he can make sense of.

Credence paws at his shirt before stepping forward. His arm shoots out, in a wide snap. His hand is pointing at somewhere behind the mountains. Away. His finger sways before moving back to point at Percival’s chest. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

He lodges the axe in the ground with a grunt. He takes off the gloves and wipes at his forehead, barely looking up again before something knocks him against a pine. He holds onto the sap drenched bark and blinks up at Credence, standing with his arms splayed in front of himself. 

He repeats the motions, more frantic. His hair hangs in tangled streaks, framing his reddened cheeks. Go away. No, go back. 

“There’s nothing for me in New York,” he says, thinking for a moment of the house and his office and realizing once again, he doesn’t feel that unspoken connection of ownership anymore. Those places aren’t his. The friends he’d made, aren’t his. 

Credence stomps a foot, inadvertently crushing a cricket. He whips around, waves his arms at the cabin. House? Home. 

“That’s right,” Percival strides past him, ignoring another strangled noise. “That’s my home now. Here.” 

This time, the push comes from the back. Percival had been expecting it, steeling himself - but his bad leg gives out at the last second. He’s hands in the dirt, covered in sweat. 

“Fuck!” He yells, half frustration and half pain, as he pulls himself up. His thigh throbs lamely, injecting spite into his blood like a wave of poison. Credence is still gesticulating, but Percival can’t bring himself to interpret.

He grabs Credence’s forearms, and even with the little muscle he’d put up in the past months, Credence can’t struggle out of the grip.

“That’s enough,” Percival gives a solid shake to him, staring at the top of his head. Credence keeps opening his mouth, and closing it around air. He stills after a third, good shake. 

Percival let’s go. Underneath the rough cloth, there’s sure to be angry marks matching his fingers. 

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore,” he says, and takes several steps back, for good measure, because he can’t stomach to see Credence standing motionless and limp in the middle of the field.

“I’m gonna go and make lunch.” 

“Hy -ouu ‘av a cho - ice.” 

If the cricket that Credence killed had still been alive, its song would have been deafening in the silence that follows. Percival slumps against the doorframe. 

Credence cradles his bruised forearms close to his chest, “Ouu can - go- o,” he spits, like the words will strangle him if he doesn’t force them out. His cheeks are puffed with effort. His eyes are glossy when he looks up.

“I — an’t. ‘Av n—no home.” 

His mouth twists up in a self deprecating smile. The next sound, Percival can’t tell if it’s a hiccup or a laugh. He jabs a finger in the air, at him. 

“Wass- stin’ tim—mm- “ 

“Ok, I get it, I get it.” 

Credence’s face is shifting to a dangerous shade of purple, clammy with sweat. He flinches when Percival reaches for him - so he doesn’t, leaving both hands splayed open and out, an invitation. 

He follows Percival inside, lets himself be coaxed into eating. The rest of the day is spent between Percival trying to have let him see his forearms, and a sense of foreboding slowly saturating Credence’s eyes. 

The sun descends quickly behind the mountains, as if in a hurry to see the day over, a change of scene. Percival is grateful. 

They don’t talk for the rest of the night, but sometime after the moon has edged away from the treetops, Percival’s door creaks and a familiar weight settles on the bed next to him. 

Credence’s hands inch underneath the light, cotton shirt, tracing their ways around him to cling onto his back with sharp, little nails. Percival rolls over and holds him too close between his chest and the mattress. 

If he can just keep Credence still enough, he thinks, as they each hurry the other out of their clothes. If he can paint the shape of his long, long legs onto the sheets. Commit to memory the softness of his lips. 

They collapse, drenched in sweat, as a cumulonimbus covers the North Star from view. Even in the dark, Credence’s eyes glint sharply, before blinking close. Percival can’t make out much else of his face, but he kisses it anyways. 

And when the dawn comes, Percival wakes up alone. 

Tina walks past the door, which is held open by a stone. A layer of dust and leaves in the threshold assures this isn’t the first night the door has remained open. There is no prickling on her skin, no sign of magical barriers. 

“You’re late.” 

Percival sits in front of the fire, tending to it with a loose hand. It burn a tad too bright for Tina to be comfortable in a wholly wooden house. They cast deep, ugly shadows under his eyes.

“Mr Graves — “

“You heard that? You’re too late. He’s gone,” he bends to pick up a nearby log, throws it into the fire with a resounding thunk. The flames groan, spreading higher. 

“I’m not here for Credence,” she says, willing her legs to brave forward. The span of movement when Percival turns to look at her is solemn and sullen, charged. There’s splinters of res dancing in his hair. 

“You have to come back.” 

He stands, wiping soot covered hands on his pants, before clenching them into fists, “I am sick and tired - “ 

“Your country needs you! Your government! Your people!” 

“Screw the government and the people too,” Graves shouts, looking like he might just try and heave her into the furnace. Tina palms at her wand through the heavy coat. 

“And screw you too, Goldstein. I’m tired.”

In the surrounding darkness, nothing moves. The world outside of the door has become a square of shifting black. They stand in the ring of red light, shadows twisting. Graves shakes his head, as if whipping away a fly, or a persistent thought. 

“I gave that place everything,” he says, and he doesn’t have to say MACUSA for Tina to envision the wide, gold laden halls stretching higher than the highest no maj skyscraper, and the many chambers deep within the earth. 

“I ...fulfilled my duty as a Graves,” he mutters with choked breath, before chuckling. Finally, he spreads both arms and rolls his shoulders; and look where it got me, he doesn’t say. 

In that moment, there’s a split second where Tina wonders - if this is what happens to a Graves, what happens to a her? If this is the future for disgraced, powerful, epitome of blood purity - where does that leave her, and Queenie, were they to take the fall? 

Where does it leave Credence?

“If you won’t come back for your job, and you won’t come back for yourself,” Tina bites more than speaks, “Then do it for Credence.”

Graves has seemingly stopped listening, retreating into the dark, where Tina supposes a bedroom is. She knows then, if he doesn’t understand now, he never will. 

“Right now there’s a warrant on his head for 12.000.000 galleons,” she says, chasing him almost to the edge of the fire ring. 

“All the Council talks about is finding and executing him. They’re using him to distract the citizens from every other way in which they’ve failed them.”

Tina heaves, stopping only as Graves does. He clings to the threshold with a hand, and doesn’t turn to look at her. But he’s listening, which is an opening that she needs to take. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Look - eventually, they will find him. And then he - nothing that me, or Newt, or Albus Dumbledore say can change the opinion of the Council.” Her lips have gone dry as sand. Her tongue is a strip of leather moving lamely against her palate. 

“But if you come back, and tell everyone what happened… there might be a chance. They will at least hear you. You can sway them, pay them off, I don’t care! But we need to hurry, Seraphina - Madame Piquery is in her last six months of term — 

“It doesn’t have to be goodbye.” 

Graves lets his hand fall away from the threshold. 

“Goodnight, Tina.” 

Percival wakes with a startle. He doesn’t remember going to sleep, or dreaming, the first image that projects into his mind is Tina Goldstein surrounded by fire. When he blinks, it disappears, replaced by the ceiling. 

He remains in bed, pondering the bottle of cheap, no maj booze resting open and empty on the nightstand. 

Then he hears it: a shuffling, an unmistakable movement in the kitchen. 

He trips over his feet, right leg lamenting the sudden movement. He lurches out of the bedroom and through the corridor, panting, he’s back he’s back he’s back. 

When he reaches the living space, it takes him a moment to collect himself, and realize what he’s looking at. 

A large, black-brown shape is ambling through the kitchen. It bends over a wooden crate; it’s full of sweet apple tarts Credence had baked, maybe three months ago. Cutting each stripe of batter and carefully placing it on top, sucking the jam off his thumb.

The recipe book Graves had swiped from the town’s shop still sat somewhere on the shelves. On the cover, greasy, sugar coated imprints. 

The bear grunts and sits back on its enormous hind. Slowly, it turns his large head towards Percival, eyes black and glinting. Clearly unsatisfied with the tarts. 

It points the wet snout at the air, roaring low, and finally turning around. Percival doesn’t move. The axe is sat next to the furnace, his wand in the bedroom. His auror instincts work fast and panicked to get him out of this but - why? 

A second voice whispers from a point behind his ear. Why do all that work? For what? 

The bear has taken to stomping the floor with its paws. Percival studies the movement with detached curiosity, as if witnessing the scene from outside his body. He’s back in New York, and he’s watching one of those amusing no maj pictures. The man on screen is about to get mauled by a beast. 

Percival stops to evaluate his life until this moment, and the things that have kept him in it. 

First it was winning his parents’ affection. When that proved impossible, it was being a model scholar. Finding friends. Maintaining the family status. 

During the war, going back home with Theseus. After the war ...his job. Climbing the ranks. Fast, no - faster. 

Then Grindelwald had arrived and trampled everything he’d managed to build for himself. He supposes then, in a practical sense, Grindelwald had had to keep him alive.

But what made him run? What made him find the cabin? Before Credence came, what powered him not to lie on the ground and let his body sink into it? Percival can’t recall. 

It is all so futile in the end. You can spend ten years trying to be the better son - or thirty building a lucrative position, and then in the course of a night, it’s all gone. Your mother is dead and you’ve become invisible to your father. A maniacal zealot kidnaps you and tortures you for weeks. 

The bear paces in front of Percival, who can’t seem to acknowledge the reality of the situation. What is keeping him alive now? The bear’s disinterest, probably. 

But there must have been moments where there was nothing external. He tries to concentrate. What drove him forward then? Time seems to stretch into an infinite, incalculable continuum, as Percival shovels through each corner of his brain. 

Again and again, coming up empty. Do this, learn that, fix those, catch these criminals, pass this law, help your promising subordinate, meet this one, sad, husk of a boy.

Die and watch your corpse reanimate and go out into the world, and no one noticing the light behind its eyes isn’t yours anymore. 

Was there ever a light, anyways? Did he shine, the way other people shined? Even at his lowest, Percival could always find a sense to his actions. But now he’s just going through the motions. 

Even this - this pretentious, philosophical debate, it’s all what he’s meant to be doing. He’s meant to re examine his life, realize its inherent worth and then fight for it. Kill the bear. Go to New York. 

But he can’t. It’s a lie. It’s all been pointless, is the truth. So much money and investments wasted on a man who was never really there.

There it is. He’s got it now. Percival Graves, the man who never was. 

He stares into the eyes of the bear and waits for it to strike. His paws are as large as his head, each armed with a set of bone white claws. His breath is rancid, and it fills the cabin quickly, as it paces back and forth. 

What will you eat first? Imagine the surprise, when you sink your muzzle into my guts and find it all hollowed out. 

Percival isn’t sure how much time passes during this confrontation with no conflict and no point. After a time, the bear licks his nose with a huge swab of pink tongue. It gives one last huff, before looking to the kitchen window. Then to the door. 

Percival watches, with sinking dread, as it moves away and hobbles out onto the porch, wooden boards crying under its weight. He stares as it sinks back into the trees, big, hulking form vanishing in the green. 

It’s all so unsubtle, Percival can’t help but laugh. 

Percival waits until spring. When neither Credence nor the bear come back, he closes the door.

Newt sits outside while he writes. It’s a silly impulse, but Percival can’t bring himself not to. He tries to keep it brief. 

_Dear Credence, in the case you do come_

_I’m making the choice. Not that I like it. Come find me in New York, when the coast is clear._

_P.S: I’m taking Beauregard._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
